This weekend we got a kiddie seat that attaches to the back of my bike. With Sweet Potato in it, the thing basically rides like my previous aftermarket haulage accessory -- a milkcrate -- when it would be filled with groceries or beer.
We got a helmet for Sweet Potato, too. She went for the purple and pink flowers. She says, Dhe-ehd, yohr hehw-meht is cooh an mine is pwhetty.
It’s great Sweet Potato thinks I’m cool. One of the reasons I liked my daycare job in high school was that one of the five-year olds said, You’re strong! Yeah, kiddo!
In fact, I look like a cross between Junichiro Koizumi and Bert the Muppet; my belly button is deepening; I dress entirely in off-price “irregular”-grade clothing, faded and bleach-stained, preferring to layer four old shirts rather than wear a jacket; my helmet is a garish blue (sale bin color); I ride a 25-year old bike that I picked up at a hillbilly yardsale for ten bucks; my beloved two-year old daughter is wearing a flowery helmet, an SF Giants hoodie, froggy galoshes, and a tutu.
But yeah, it’s great being cool and pretty. Plus, it was pretty god damn cold to ride (high 30s and windy), so we yelled all the way down the street, It’s NOT WARM! AT ALL! AT ALL! AT ALL!
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In the fall I helped my six-year old niece learn how to ride a two-wheeler! It was one of the most terrific times in my life, and I just wanted to wake up every morning and go out and help her practice. I remember so clearly the moment I learned how to ride -- I realized I was in balance, by myself -- and I’d always wanted to help someone else learn. Throughout my childhood, my bike was my key to quietude, adventure, and independence; an experience of the world through motion, wind, and smells. The key to helping someone learn is to hold the seat and keep running; don’t be lazy and pull on the handlebars.
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